A Comfortable LIfe

     I like comfort. I spent over twenty years in a career in which personal comfort did not matter. In fact, my superiors evaluated my worth on my ability to absorb significant does of physical and mental stress. I learned the value of being able to sleep almost anywhere or any time. I’ve spent long periods of time sleeping in the back of a HUMVEE. Periodically I placed extreme value on a fresh pair of socks or change of undergarments. During one particular stretch, I went for almost six months without a hot shower, occasionally bathing out of a bucket with a rag. At the end of that time, I was overjoyed to find out that what I thought was some sort of black fungal infection in the soles of my feet was simply dirt. A hot shower cured me. For a year I wore two uniforms; wash one, wear one. My experiences as a soldier are neither unique nor unusual. Ask any veteran and they will share similar stories, some much worse. Now, as a retiree, I enjoy a life of comfort.

     Very little discomfort intrudes upon my life these days. I sleep in a good bed. I enjoy ample chow of my choice. In the eve, when I start to yawn, I lie down for sleep. I slumber uninterrupted, save for the occasional trip to the latrine, until it is time for me to arise. After seven hours or so I awaken, usually before the clangor of my alarm. I trundle off to work which fires my passions and for which I’m adequately remunerated. I share this pleasant, abundance with a woman I love who returns my love. We relish the quiet rhythm our current situation affords. Most Sundays, after worship we share a communal lunch with our immediate family, enjoying laughter and interesting conversation. Yet, periodically, something roils the placid stream of my life.

     I forget that save for God’s grace I stand justly condemned and lost. Sometimes I fall into the trap of believing my own good press. I look over at someone, grappling with an issue foreign to me, and judge them as unfit. I think poorly of them. I forget that without the sacrifice of Jesus I stand of the wrong side of a vast chasm carved by the rushing torrent of my selfish intransigence. In my arrogance I conjure up an image of God being somehow glad that I’m on His side. As if I have something He needs. And in these darker moments I find myself sitting on the stoop, sulking.

     Recently someone came to me, seeking help and assistance; and not for the first time. This is a repeat performance for them. More than once they’ve spurned my extended hand and good counsel, heaping scorn on me. Now, they desperately need my succor. I can summon the willingness to help; but, at a cost. I want to extract my pound of flesh. My aid and assistance come at with conditions. I want to remind them of their previous boorish behavior and faulty decisions. I do not deal in grace. I charge a rather steep price for my “help.” This is not love. It is vengeance disguised as care and concern. It is a deep and dark place.

     God comes to me there, in my sulky solitude. “Why, He ponders, “are you sitting out here in the darkness? Come in and enjoy the light and party.”

     “Why are we throwing a party for those sinners? They’ve done nothing to cause such celebration. They’ve born no fruit. In fact, they’ve sullied our good name with their reckless immorality.”

     “Yes, it’s true. They have. But, now they’ve come home. How can we not rejoice?”

     “What if they do it again? How can we be certain that they will not wander off? They may hurt us…again!”

     “They may. But, today, we rejoice. Come inside, enjoy the moment. And for heaven’s sake, leave that baggage out here in the dark, where it belongs.”

      I so like to think I’m worthy. I enjoy a comfortable, buttoned-down, well ordered, disciplined life and I think that somehow that elevates me above others. In reality, spiritually speaking, I’m sitting out in the dark desperately trying to rearrange my filthy rags in such a way as to cover up my own dirty, wretched nakedness. I need God just as much, and perhaps even more due to my pride, as the person whom I’m called to help. Perhaps I’d better come in quickly before the queso is all gone.